


a song of suffering (that only we can hear)

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), just pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 16:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I don’t want it to end,” Crowley sobs into his sweater, “I don’t want it to end, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to fight you.”“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs into his hair. “I know, my dear, I know.”“I don’t want toleaveyou.”“I know.” His voice breaks.





	a song of suffering (that only we can hear)

There is much debate over the question of whether or not occult or ethereal beings can get alcohol poisoning. The answer is still unknown, but two of them are currently getting remarkably close to finding one.

Crowley is sitting next to him on the couch, swilling the Malbec around his glass to create a small and bloody whirlpool in the center. His expression is sullen, reserved, and Aziraphale cannot blame him; he is feeling no better. It has now been about fourteen hours since the Antichrist was delivered unto the Earth, and they have been drinking solidly for about two of them. The backroom of the bookshop is cozy under normal circumstances. These are not normal circumstances, and right now, it is positively stifling. Everywhere he looks, he sees but another ticking time-bomb, another failure, another insufficiency. He can hear Gabriel’s voice, a long-gone conversation playing on loop like a broken record in his head:

_ You have grown too attached to these trivially mortal comforts, Aziraphale. You’d do best to begin keeping a greater distance _.

Trivially mortal comforts, indeed. He cannot think of anything that could make up for the feeling of being curled up on his couch with a brand-new book, a cup of cocoa steaming invitingly at his elbow, heavenly or no. Nothing more comforting than taking a stroll through St James’s Park, of going on nighttime drives, of discovering another little restaurant in a previously unexplored little corner. And if there’s another reason for his attachment, a tall and snake-eyed reason with a sharp tongue and fiery red hair—well. It makes no difference, as he likes to try and convince himself.

“Kiss me,” Crowley says suddenly, jerking him out of his stupor, and Aziraphale nearly chokes on his drink. Of course, he often hears the words _kiss me _ when Crowley is talking, though it’s usually only just subtext.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said,” he says, tipping back his drink and standing up unsteadily, “kiss me.”

Aziraphale gapes at him for a few moments, heart beating wildly in his chest. He clambers to his feet, too, watching him warily. “I don’t think you know what you’re saying, my dear.” It seems absurd that his affections could be returned, especially now.

“I know damn well what I’m saying. We could do it, you know,” he says, words struggling to remain nonchalant, but his eyes betray him. His sunglasses are lying discarded on the coffee table, taken off about halfway through the second bottle of Chardonnay. His eyes are burning, nearly alight with a rage incandescent. “We could do it, here, at the end of the world. There’s a couch, you have a couch, that’s all we need!” He looks slightly mad, possessed with a fizzing and malignant energy.

He is so close that Aziraphale can smell him; the smell of his extortionately priced cologne, of leaves and soil, the supple leather of the Bentley’s seats, all coming together into a further-intoxicating farrago. He is suddenly cornered, back pressed into a bookshelf, the demon leaning against him, face a hairsbreadth apart from his own. He hadn’t realized he’d been backing up.

“Let’s do it,” he says, and his voice is dangerous. In this single moment, Aziraphale has no doubt that he has been sent straight upwards from Hell. Before he can make a single noise of protest, Crowley’s lips are on his. And it feels good, but—

“Crowley,” he gasps, and he cannot deny that he wants this—but not now, not like this. And he is certain that, under the possibility as rare as hen’s teeth that Crowley wants this, too, he wouldn’t want it to be like this, either. “Crowley, stop. Stop it.”

“We could do it,” he says again, pulling away, the furious undertone still sharp and jagged and ruinous. “And what would _ you lot _ say then, hmm? What would you bloody _ say_? Can’t do _ shit _about it if it happens, you’re destroying it all anyway!” His words aren’t meant for Aziraphale. His head is tipped back, shouting at the ceiling with all the furious retribution of Hell packed behind his words. The ceiling does not answer, and nor does the cherry-wood floor upon which he is standing. No one else is listening to them right now. It’s just the two of them, neither angel nor devil, not really, not anymore. He is not sure if that’s for better or for worse.

“No. No, listen to me, stop.”

“_Shit_, Aziraphale, we can! And if you’re worried about—about them or the other them or whatever, well, you don’t have to be because they’re going to ruin it and this is the least we can do, this is the smallest flip-off we can pull—Jesus, who knew I could be so angry? We _ can_.” He fumbles with the buttons at Aziraphale’s collar, hands shaking too badly to get a proper hold. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“I said _ stop it _,” he says, taking Crowley’s hands firmly. He tries to pull them away, but Aziraphale is deceptively strong, far more powerful than Crowley on this level. He is, after all, the Principality of the Eastern gate of Eden. His face is contorted in anger—no, he realizes, in fear, and he struggles for a moment more before slumping, defeated, against the angel’s chest. He is shaking. Aziraphale lets go, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close, feeling the bird-like shake of his shoulder blades as he succumbs to the all-consuming terror that has been hovering around their heads like some sick mockery of a halo all night.

“I don’t want it to end,” he sobs into his sweater, “I don’t want it to end, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to fight you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs into his hair. “I know, my dear, I know.”

“I don’t want to _ leave _ you.”

“I know.” His voice breaks.

Neither of them remembers this exchange after they’ve sobered up.

. . .

An hour later, Crowley proposes an idea.

It’s an insane idea, really.

But it just might work.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if any of you wonderful folks have a fic idea that you want someone to write, message me on my Tumblr @/sannikov-land and I will write it because I like writing and I like Good Omens so it's a good match! Don't be shy!
> 
> So that was fun. Originally wrote this as part of a 5+1 but I gave up on it. Sort of liked this part so here you are! Leave a comment or a kudos if so inclined, and have yourself a wonderful day :)


End file.
